


Sunshine Dream

by rosa_himmelblau



Series: Starsky's Clandestine Reports [4]
Category: Starsky & Hutch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:47:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27025282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosa_himmelblau/pseuds/rosa_himmelblau
Summary: After their betrayal by John Colby, Starsky and Hutch are given a lightweight investigation.
Series: Starsky's Clandestine Reports [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/599422
Kudos: 14





	Sunshine Dream

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Martha J Bonds (April_Valentine)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/April_Valentine/gifts).



####  Clandestine Report #28

Det. Sgt. D.M. Starsky

Cap'n complains about my reports being late, but is it my fault I gotta write 'em twice 'cause he won't accept my first report?

Sometimes I get real sick of the whole departmental Joe Friday mindset -- "Just the facts" and fit people's whole lives into the tiny squares on a police report. Some stuff won't fit in those squares, and some they don't got squares for. And I gotta write it down,  _ all _ of it, because it's all important, if not to the case, then to H and me, 'cause you get affected by the stuff that happens to you on the street. Anyhow, I know Cap'n  _ doesn't _ want this info, but then I couldn't turn this one in if I wanted to.

####  Day One

'Kay, well, we got called into Cap'n's office first thing Monday morning, August 5th. Mayor Hobbs had called and told Cap'n he wanted two of his best men on a very important case. Tamarind Tree Littoral Coterie (some kinda nouveau-rich beach club), where his daughter belongs, had an upsetting incident over the weekend -- seems somebody sent one of the rich girls a nasty letter.

I could feel H's back stiffen. Ok, here we go, gearing up for one of the famous Hutchinson cold fronts; but before he could say anything, Cap'n said we weren't on anything important, and a week or so should make everybody happy. Somehow, I could read something else between Cap'n's words -- like the whole situation was pissing him off royally, but there was nothing he could do about it, and like maybe he'd chosen us because H could use a rest. God knows  _ that _ was true -- after the Colby mess, H could've used a couple weeks to get his head back together; what he got instead was a lot of paperwork and a lot of flack from the Feds. I did, too, but I wasn't paying much attention to any of it; mostly I was just thinking about how much I'd like to kick John Colby's ass. Nobody shits on my partner like that and gets away with it.

H was gearing up for a real blow-up when Cap'n turned to me and told me to take my partner and get out of his office, that he had work to do. In other words, I got to deal with H's temper.

Thanks a lot, Cap'n.

So I pulled H out of the office, with Cap'n telling us to go on over to TTLC to see what the set-up was like.

Got to spend the ride over to TTLC listening to H be righteously indignant -- and H righteously indignant is enough to freeze your nuts off. To be honest, I agreed with him, but hey, if somebody wants to pay me to put in time at the beach, who'm I to argue?

Finally I got fed up and told him. There was a moment of silence, then H laughed. "I guess we could stand some extra vacation time."

That good mood lasted until we met Ms Linton, owner of the TTLC. She glanced at me like I was a present from her cat, then looked H over like he was a Picasso she was planning to buy -- deliberation, appreciation and a certain damned speculation, like, "Is this a good deal?" She gave us one of those patented smiles (freezer-fresh) and thanked us for coming. She handed H a note, printed in turquoise ink on pale pink paper:

  
  


_**GRACIE, YOU SLUT.**_

**_EVERYBODY KNOWS YOU'D GO DOWN ON A WARTHOG IF HE WINKED AT YOU. WHY DON'T YOU GO BACK TO HOLLYWOOD HIGH WHERE YOU BELONG_?**  
  
---  
  
H and I looked at each other, daring each other to let go and laugh, but neither of us did.

"Obviously we can't have this sort of thing going on; the parents who pay for their children's memberships bring them here to protect them from the undesirable elements they would come in contact with on a public beach." Again the tight, frozen smile. "Obviously occurrences of this sort are..." Ms Linton left the sentence dangling; clearly the consequences were too horrible to put into words. "I certainly hope you two can help me."

H assured her, with  _ his _ best frosty smile. God save me from Hutchinson politeness -- I'd rather sleep in an iceberg.

Ms Linton told H that since he had experience as a lifeguard, that would make the perfect cover for him, and as for me -- well, they had been looking for somebody to work at the lunch counter...? This was left open-ended, as if to ask if I thought I could handle this. For about four seconds I was deeply insulted, but the look of outrage on H's face eased that -- if this Ms Whozits kept insulting me, H was gonna slug her. I told her I was sure I could handle selling hotdogs to rich kids. Ms Whozits got this look on her face like sour milk, and said she was glad to find me a position. She handed us each a large white box, which she said contained our uniforms, and did we want to try them on right now?

I glanced at my watch; it was close to noon and I was starving, so I suggested we take the uniforms with us and have lunch and try them on and come back afterward. After giving me a distrustful look, Ms Whozits smiled a wintry smile and said of course we could do that, she'd see us later to show us around.

#####

Lunch was at the Pits, but I wasn't sure what we ate -- it was a special concoction of Huggy's new cook, and no one would say what was in it. After a while I decided I didn't want to know; it tasted ok, and I didn't think Huggy was out to poison anybody. H just kinda played around with his lunch, eating a mouthful or so.

We went back to my place to try on our costumes. I headed for my bedroom, assuming H would change in the living room. The uniform was a pair of white shorts and a white polo-type shirt, with a little turquoise tree embroidered on the left sleeve. I figured it was a Tamarind tree, whatever the hell that was. Then there was a pair of white crew socks, the same little trees on either side of them, and a pair of turquoise deck shoes. All in all, not bad -- I've worn much more embarrassing clothes. The shirt was kinda roomy, but the shorts fit tight, the way I like 'em, and they were pretty short. Keeping the damn outfit clean while serving food was going to be the trick.

I went back to the living room to show off my spiffy new clothes, and found H sitting on the sofa looking like somebody'd killed his last plant. "Well, wha'd'ya think? Hey, how come you're not changed?"

"Shut up." Mr. Surly was back. H strode past me into my bedroom and slammed the door behind him. I sat on the sofa, waiting. H was swearing loudly and banging things around. 

"You ever coming out?"

No response.

"Hey, Blintz, we gotta get back."

More swearing, most of it directed at Ms Whozits. Some of it was even in Spanish; apparently he was running out of English profanity.

"When you've exhausted your Spanish, I've got a few good Yiddish words you can have -- "

The door slammed open and H came out.

"Shut up."

I hadn't seen his "uniform" before, so it came as something of a -- well, shock. Tight black sleeveless t-shirt with that familiar little turquoise tree on the chest, skin-tight black bikinis, a silver whistle on a turquoise cord, and turquoise deck shoes. All that black and turquoise against H's blondness was dazzling, stunningly erotic.

Having  _ that _ response to H bewildered me -- I've always  _ known _ he was good looking, but this was the first time I've ever  _ felt _ it. I didn't know what it meant (wasn't sure I wanted to know). The first coherent thought to slither through my brain was 'Even with that killer scowl on his face, he still looks like some kind of goddamned angel, some kind of dream -- '

That thought left me feeling like I'd just gone over the first hill of a roller coaster without a car. What the hell kind of thing was  _ that _ to think about  _ my partner _ ?

H turned around lethargically, quarter-heartedly modeling his outfit. "Go on, say it, get it out of your system, because once we leave here  _ I don't wanna hear it _ ! "

The first thing that came to mind was that I loved what those tight-cut bikinis did for his ass, making it look supple and shapely. I actually even opened my mouth, but my brain got it closed before any words came out. Ah, well, when in danger, bluff. Hands trembling, I reached out and grabbed hold of his whistle, pulling his face close to mine, and in a husky voice whispered, "I can't resist a man in a whistle."

It worked; H burst out laughing. "Is that it? Are you through, or am I going to be getting cracks like that from you til this is over?"

"Til this is over? Hell, no, Blondie, I'm gonna remember this -- and make sure  _ you _ remember it -- forever."

H gave me one of his you'll-pay-for-this looks. "I'm not going out of the house like this." He went back into the bedroom and pulled his black cords on over the bikinis.

"Good idea," I called after him, "a grand unveiling's got a lot more drama to it."

H gave me the finger and zipped his fly. "You better hope you don't accidentally stumble into the ocean, because if you do, I'm going to jump in and drown you."

#####

While I waited, Ms Whozits showed H his perch -- a turquoise chair with a turquoise and black umbrella, on top of tall turquoise legs, with a turquoise ladder leading up to it. Hallelujah.

Then H walked along while I got the grand tour of the lunch counter. It looked remarkably like a hotdog stand -- a turquoise and white hotdog stand. Ms Whozits assured me I wouldn't be cooking anything, just taking orders and getting drinks. We met the cook, Cliff Stuart, and were introduced as Ken Gavial and Dave Carnetta, two old college friends Ms Whozits had just hired.

Next we were shown the rest of the layout -- little store off the side of the lunch counter; it carried an array of beach supplies, all tastefully monogrammed with the same little tree. Very classy and undoubtedly very over-priced (nothing was tacky enough to carry an actual price tag). H threw Ms Whozits his ingratiating smile (the one only strangers are naive enough to trust), picked up a pair of designer sunglasses, tore off the tag, and slipped them on. God, it made my heart turn over, that cool, who-gives-a-shit look.

Ms Whozits didn't say a word about it, just told us to be back at eight a.m. the next day. Obviously a dismissal, so we split.

####  Day Two

Woke up exhausted -- I didn't sleep much the night before, worrying about the weird thing that had happened with H. It had to be some kind of fluke -- I kept telling myself that, but somehow I couldn't make myself believe it.

H said he'd be renting a car -- something a little more in tune with our roles -- but I wasn't expecting a black Alfa Romeo convertible. And what was worse, that damn car made him look even sexier. I wanted to keep walking, pretend I didn't know him, but I had to get in the damn car and try to make rational conversation, and all I could think about was the ache in my groin.

The TTLC had its own intriguing little social structure. Most of the members were somewhere between ten and twenty, and of course the younger kids wanted to hang around with the older ones, and the older kids thought the young ones were babies -- but there seemed to be some kind of unwritten code that prohibited boys and girls from mixing on the beach. A couple going steady would arrive together (either in his black Porsche or her cream-colored Trans Am), unload their paraphernalia (sometimes he'd even schlep hers for her) then go their separate ways -- boys to swim and eat and horse around, girls to sunbathe and gossip and drink diet sodas. Except for an occasional over-anxious Romeo showing up to help rub suntan lotion on his girlfriend's unreachable areas (which never failed to mortify/overjoy said girlfriend), there was no mingling.

It didn't take long for the little girls to gather around the new lifeguard; of course H always has stood out in a crowd, even a crowd of tall, blue-eyed blonds. There's something about him that just kinda shimmers. And with his eyes hidden behind those damned shades he'd lifted, his face was immobile, as if he were a zillion miles away -- which only made him more appealing to the teenage set. Unattainable was a turn-on. Anyhow, very quickly H acquired his own small, but permanent, cluster of admirers; they immediately started laying out their blankets a few yards from H.

I spent the afternoon taking food orders and pouring soft drinks and watching H's ass as he patrolled the beach, or sat on his perch. And like lightning on a clear day, a word flashed into my mind, one I'd just learned the definition of in "The Straight Dope": "callipygian." Cecil Adams defined it as "having shapely buttocks," and suddenly I knew precisely what that meant; watching H walk away made me feel like gravity had let go and I was falling off the earth. Fortunately, H was acting very professional and ignoring me completely.

I tried to talk to Cliff, to see if I could find out anything from him, but all he had to say was that he'd been working there for five years, and from what he could see, once you'd been here one summer, you'd seen it all.

The names I heard the boys call each other made the note we'd seen look like a love sonnet, and no one took any offense -- reminded me a lot of high school, too. I'd pretty well surmised it was written by a girl, anyway; none of the guys I knew would send any kind of note in turquoise ink on pink paper.

And the girls were more complicated. I heard them talking all day, but I didn't understand most of it. The only thing I was certain of was that no one used the word warthog in my hearing. In fact, the only animal I heard mentioned at all was someone's purebred Airedale.

The workday finally came to an end (we were only expected to put in ten hours, with forty-five minutes off for lunch, and two fifteen minute breaks. I'd had no idea lifeguards and lunch counter attendants worked slaves' hours).

H was bright pink with what looked like the beginnings of a sunburn, but he'd be tawny by morning. He stopped at the lunch counter to tell me he was going to change his clothes and that he'd meet me at the car.

H opened the car door and slid in next to me. "You want to stop and get dinner someplace?"

"Yeah, sure," I answered, without thinking. After a moment I realized I couldn't possibly sit and eat dinner with him and be composed. "Uh, no, I'm sorry, I can't."

H glanced at me, puzzled. "Can't what?"

"Have dinner."

"Why not?"

"I've got a headache, from the heat. I just want to go home to bed."

H didn't look convinced, but he didn't argue, either. "Ok, sure, whatever you say."

The ride to my place was uncomfortable, what with me getting a hard-on and H trying to figure out what the hell was wrong with me. As he turned onto Ridgeway, I blurted out that I thought dinner would be a terrific idea. Eyes narrowed, H looked at me for a second, then made the sweetest U-turn you've ever seen ('course the Alpha Romeo helped a lot, but still, that move had style). Why  _ that _ in particular should have affected me so strongly, I don't know, but it made me want to reach out and stroke his hair. I knew this was a lousy, stupid idea, but I couldn't help it, I couldn't bear to just get out of the car, go in the house and  _ imagine _ him all night --

He pulled up in front of Tozzi's (one of the great pizza places) and that surprised me. "No rabbit food tonight?"

H looked strange at me again. "Are you ok?  _ I'm _ the one who's destined for heat stroke, but  _ you're _ acting flaky. You eat too many hotdogs today?"

Flaky? I'd been acting flaky? God, I'd been trying so hard to act normal, his words threw me into a panic.

That must have shown in my eyes, because the next words out of his mouth were, "Hey, you're not in trouble for eating too many hotdogs; I'm not your mother, you know." A hand on my shoulder accompanied this, and made me feel swoony.

"I -- I really do have a headache."

"You don't have a headache, you have a yo-yo in your head. We'll go in, order a pizza and a pitcher of beer, and you can take a couple aspirin, how does that sound?"

Now he was being nice to me. What're the odds of a guy who's usually the most sarcastic person alive being nice to you just when you don't think you can handle it? I nearly told him I'd wait in the car while he ate, but that would've sounded  _ really stupid _ , so I went in with him.

He ordered a large mushroom pizza and a pitcher of beer, and two salads. I'm sure I ate, but I don't remember. I remember talking about what little I'd heard that day: Elizabeth Marchland was no longer going steady with Rick Perkins, but was trying to interest Mark Somebody (didn't get his last name). H seemed to find this all very amusing. Everyone around him talked in whispers, like they were afraid of being overheard. I laughed, a really good, comfortable laugh. "They  _ are _ afraid of being overheard; they don't want you knowing what they're talking about."

"Why not?"

"Because a lot of the time they're talking about you."

"Me? Why?"

"Because you're the new lifeguard, and lifeguards are sex symbols."

"What are you talking about?"

"Don't you know about the lifeguard mystique? I mean, you can't help it if you're the hottest thing ever to hit this beach."

H gave me a nasty look. "And why aren't  _ you _ being showered with attention?"

I smiled. "Nice of you to notice, but you don't get it. I'm just hired help."

"Well, lifeguards are just -- "

"Hutch, you're a  _ lifeguard _ \-- there's a whole mystique about lifeguards. You sit out there on your pedestal, looking all blond and perfect and everyone of those girls thinks you're some kinda sun-god."

That got him. "Oh, Christ."

"You're not picking up anything, but you're drawing 'em out and I hear all kinds of stuff 'cause they don't pay any attention to me -- "

"Starsky," very patiently, "that's really stupid."

"Hey, I agree. I mean, I'm sexier'n you any day but because you're the lifeguard, you've got all the little chicks after you."

"That is really stupid."

"I told you -- "

"I mean the idea that you're sexier than I am."

After H dropped me off at home, I showered, put on my robe, and lay down in bed to watch TV. "Night of the Living Dead" was on so I watched that, then switched channels to catch the end of "Dementia 13," but I couldn't concentrate on it; I kept thinking about my irrational feelings toward H. I knew I wasn't "in love" (I'd known that; I've been in love that this wasn't the same feeling). And it wasn't lust (I know that one, too, and I know the difference between the two -- love is like waking up early in the morning, looking at the clock, and thinking, shit, only ten more minutes to sleep -- and realizing it's your day off: a kinda snug exuberance, a tranquil elation... it sounds like a contradiction in terms, but that's what it means to me. And lust -- well, that one's easy: Who-cares-what-your-name-is,-I-wanna-fuck-you -- I don't think you can feel that way about somebody you already love.) This, God help me, had all the symptoms of a crush: my stomach did somersaults when I just thought about H, and when I was with him, everything went haywire -- my palms got sweaty (hell, my whole body got sweaty, my knees went all wobbly, and my brain started chipmunking 'round and 'round -- I couldn't think in a straight line to save the universe. It was like somebody'd taped my soul to the outside of my body, where H could just look right into it and see what I was feeling. I wanted to be anyplace else. But being away from him was no good either -- I got jittery and couldn't focus on anything -- like spring fever, only worse. All I could do was replay conversations over in my head, or practice what I wanted to say the next time we talked. Not that I was planning on telling him or anything -- I just couldn't face trying to have another conversation without a script in my head.

I spent the night drowsing through old horror movies and coming up with innocent, mundane conversation to fill the car rides and lunch breaks...

####  Day Three

Took precautions this morning -- jacked off in the shower (woke up just  _ aching _ with wanting him) and the thought of another day of voyeurism had my heart fluttering spasmodically, and already I was getting another hard-on. It was gonna be a long day.

H showed up early, bearing breakfast for him and me (organic mud glop for him, jelly donuts for me). He was wearing his uniform under navy cords and a gray jacket. (It was easy to tell he had the bikinis on, by the uneasy way he walked.)

I told H it was the minerals and stuff in his glop that drew the girls to him like magnets. H closed his eyes, like he was in pain. "You know, Starsky, you're not making this any easier."

I smiled at him. "That's what I'm here for. Gotta get dressed."

H muttered something like at least they gave me something to get dressed  _ in _ , and I laughed and left the room.

That morning when we arrived there were girls waiting in their cars, trying not to be noticed. I don't think H  _ did _ notice them; he was too preoccupied with getting into his character.

But it was me they flocked to (discreetly, of course). It didn't take long for me to find out why: I was  _ friends _ with H; I rode to work with him, so I must have information. I'd never been a snitch before -- it was kinda interesting.

"Is that Orange Crush Ken's drinking?" Jinx Nichols: whispery little voice, short dark hair, and big gray eyes that never left H.

I started to tell her no, it was carrot juice, but then I thought, what the hell? "Yep. He just loves Orange Crush."

"Really?" Pammy Mills appeared next to Jinx, and up against Pammy's feline beauty, Jinx just sort of vanished.

"Uh-huh," I agreed nonchalantly. "He practically lives on a diet of cotton candy and Orange Crush." I could see them filing this data away. I poured them each a cup of Orange Crush. Jinx took hers back to her towel, but Pammy stuck around to pump me for more information. 

Leaning closer, she said, "I noticed Ken doesn't wear a wedding ring."

Big mistake; I wasn't in the mood for her imperious 'tell me what I want to know' attitude. This wasn't a question so I didn't see that it required an answer. "You know, I've noticed that, too."

The ice-green eyes narrowed; I was pissing her off, and I wasn't significant enough to be this inconvenient. On the other hand, I was the only source she had. Her mouth smiled, but her hands clenched. "Do you know if he's married?"

I shook my head. "Ya know, we never discussed it." I gave her my best dim-bulb smile and watched her eyes narrow. If I didn't shape up, she was gonna have me shot.

"Are you married?" As if she really gave a shit.

"Nope."

"That's difficult to understand."

No comment for that one. I filled a couple more Orange Crush orders -- word was really spreading. When we were alone again, Pammy asked how long Ken and I had know each other.

"Oh, lessee, almost twenty years." A slight exaggeration. It gave Pammy pause; I'd known H longer than she'd been alive. It was a petty way of asserting my territorial prerogative, but it made me feel good.

Questions filtered in all day and I answered them cheerfully, making up the answers as I went along. H would be furious if he ever found out -- and he'd find out if I had to tell him myself.

The day was a long, hot, tiring one, made longer, hotter, and more tiring by H's repeated parades up and down the beach. Every so often he'd sneak behind my counter to make adjustments -- and I practically had to stand on my hands to keep from offering my assistance. It made for an enthralling show...

We met at the car at quitting time. I watched him start the car; for some reason the line of his cheekbone was turning me on like crazy -- I had the strongest desire to lean over and bite his cheek. I actually leaned a little closer, and that's when it hit me: the sweet, musky smell of him over-powered me, made me giddy.

"Are you listening to me?" H demanded suddenly, turning to face me.

I hadn't been, not really, I'd just been letting the sound and cadence of his voice wash over me. But I knew him well enough to know what he'd been saying. "I don't have to listen to you, Blintz, I've heard it all before. You don't like us being wasted on this Twinkie assignment, you don't like your skimpy little 'Lifeguard of the Month' outfit, and you don't like being ogled by adolescent girls. Ya want my advice? Just relax; it'll all be over in a couple days."

Zapping him was fun, even if I did have to clench my fingers together to keep from stroking his throat...

"Relax. You don't know what it's like -- they're acting really strange, Starsk. One girl -- the little red-head -- told me she just loved bunny rabbits."

I leaned back against the seat, laughing. "Did you know your favorite color's baby blue?"

A look. "What?"

"An' your favorite food's cotton candy, an' your hobbies are collecting beer cans, raising bunnies, an' driving around town looking for out-of-state license plates -- "

"What?" Another look, this one deadly. "You want to repeat that drivel?"

"And," I went on, "your favorite TV shows are 'Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood' and 'Brady Bunch' repeats -- "

"Have you been telling people these things -- ?"

I nodded. "Uh-huh. Your favorite movie's 'Benjie' -- "

"My God, I sound like some kind of moron."

I nodded, pleased. "You got it, you're the original air-head blond. Hutch, these girls aren't looking for smarts, they're looking for shoulders -- an' everything else you been showin' off the last coupl'a days." Is it possible to get more fatal than fatal? 'Cause the look on H's face did. It made me want to laugh; it made me want to kiss him. I laughed. "Oh, an' this cool car you're driving? Your girlfriend gave it to you -- "

"You're going to be sorry." Enunciated like rifle shots. "The things I'm going to tell them about you -- "

I shook my head, still laughing. "Forget it. By the time they get up enough guts to talk to you, we'll be long gone -- Dobey said a week, remember? So face it, Blondie, you're screwed." It took everything I had to say that nonchalant -- and pat him on the cheek as I did.

The homicidal look remained for a few moments, then a sort of benevolence came over him. "You aren't getting out of this so easily -- believe me, Starsky, you're going to pay for this." He pulled the car up in front of my house and waited for me to get out.

"You coming inside?"

"I don't want to spend any more time with you than is absolutely necessary."

"See ya in the morning!" I replied blithely, closing the car door behind me.

The dream I had that night convinced me that I'd been better off not sleeping. It was the most staggeringly erotic dream I can ever recall having; H lay beneath me, naked, legs spread wide so I could lay between them. I know he was facing me, because I remember the kissing -- long, hold-your-breath kisses till I was lightheaded with lust and lack of oxygen. Then he turned over on his stomach and opened his thighs just enough for me to slide my cock between them. I wasn't trying to penetrate him, I was just humping against his balls.

I woke up panting and covered with sweat, the covers sticky and scrunched between my legs. It was gonna be another fucking long day.

####  Day Four

Every damn girl on the beach was wearing a baby blue swimming suit, or carrying a baby blue towel. H shot me a look I could feel through his shades. I grinned and waved cheerily.

I don't know if he was trying to get away from it all, or if the temperature (99 in the shade) got to him, but on his morning break H made the mistake of taking a morning swim; he stripped off his t-shirt, kicked off his deck shoes, and loped into the ocean.

When he came out fifteen minutes later, the bikinis had a sort of shimmer to them -- and they were glued to his skin. They literally looked painted on. There was a sort of mass orgasm; it was a sound that, once you'd heard it, you'd never forget it: all the little girls moaned real low at once. Jinx, who was standing at the counter, leaned against it and whimpered, "I wish he'd blow his whistle."

A look from her companion. "Why?"

"Because then I'd steal it -- and I'd have something he'd put in his mouth!"

Obviously, H didn't realize how he looked; his attitude was too cool and comfortable for a man millimeters from an indecent exposure rap. I  _ had _ to tell him; I was his partner, I owed it to him. Only trouble was, I couldn't take my eyes off him, toweling himself off, and I didn't think I could speak coherently; I wanted to lick the salt water from his skin. And coming out from behind my counter would have proved profoundly revealing. So I kinda waved at him, and he sauntered up to the stand.

"Look, you -- twit -- get back on your chair and get dried off before you get down again, because otherwise I'm gonna take you in for indecent exposure."

I couldn't see his eyes widen, but  _ could _ see the rest of his face sort of -- slip. He glanced down and the translucence of the fabric made his face -- and every other inch of his body -- flush strawberry red.

"Mind if I sit back there with you a while?" H asked, casually moving around to my side of the counter. He stood close to me, and breathing deeply I could smell him, a medley of sweat, saltwater and Coppertone mixed into a hot, pungent aphrodisiac. I wanted to bury my face in his neck and immerse myself.

"What  _ is _ the matter with you?" H asked. I must have been looking at him, or maybe sniffing him; I been flashing on putting my face between his legs, to see if he smelled as good there -- maybe that oddness showed on my face.

"Not a thing," I replied coolly. "I just hope it doesn't get back to IA that my partner's an exhibitionist -- "

The cup of lemonade over my head was accompanied by several softly spoken, well-chosen suggestions for what I could do with IA. Actually, I've never met anyone in IA I'd wanna have lunch with, let alone do anything like  _ that _ with. I told H so as he stalked off, but I don't think he was listening.

He was back seconds later, wearing the killer scowl. "Suit still wet?" I asked, but got no response. So I poured him a glass of carrot juice and waited for him to cool off.

Hastily H stole back into the shadows. I looked at him curiously, but before I could ask what he was doing, I heard, "May we have a couple glasses of lemonade?" Marissa Lord and Chelsea Osbourne drooped against the counter.

"Sure thing," I agreed. "We aim to please." H was watching me do my not-too-bright waiter impression, a strange smile on his face. I poured the girls their drinks, and another for myself.

"So," Chelsea murmured to Marissa, "So how long do you think Gracie'll last, with Pammy on her case?"

Marissa giggled. "Are you kidding? Gracie'll be gone before this summer's over. Nobody can hold up against Pammy for long."

"It's her own fault," Chelsea agreed. "She shouldn't've told Chuck about Pammy's special-made clothes."

Another giggle from Marissa. "You know, without the padding, Pammy gets mistaken for her ten-year-old brother... " They strolled off.

H and I looked at each other, then leaned over the counter to check out Pammy Mills.

"Whaddaya think?" I asked. "You think she's our note-writer?"

"Are you kidding? Got to be." H smiled. "Through brilliant detective work, we've solved the case. And now there's only one thing left to do."

I waited, H grinning at me like an idiot. "Well, you gonna tell me?"

"We bust her."

H ducked and lemonade splattered against the wall. A smirk from H. "You missed." He vaulted the counter and dashed to the car. I followed, sure if I didn't get there in time he'd strand me, but we'd both forgotten H had left his keys in his pants pocket.

Again he dropped me at my place. "I'm going to go home, shower, and burn these damned things."

"Don't do anything rash -- I could make big money auctioning your clothes off at the beach -- hey, blow your whistle, it'll quadruple its worth -- "

The car roared off. So I went in the house and took a shower myself.

I'd just gotten out when I heard a knock at the door. Wrapped in my robe, I hurried to answer it, dripping across the living room floor.

I wasn't expecting H at all --  _ why _ I don't know, since we hadn't spent a whole lot of time together on this "case." But somehow his appearance at my door flustered me; for a split second I was sure he'd come over to confront me about the way I was staring at him lately.

"Can I come in?" H asked, glanced pointedly at my appearance, and added, "Or are you busy?"

I stood aside to let him in and he headed straight for the refrigerator. "You want a beer?"

"Yeah, sure." I was afraid to drink too much around him (might let my guard down and do something stupid. On the other hand, without something to relax me, I was gonna jitter through the floor.)

"I'm gonna finish drying off," I told H, and he nodded absently.

I found my loosest pajamas, and put my robe over them. It was too warm for all that, but I felt protected.

H was on his second beer when I got back to the living room. He smiled an actual smile; those had been few and far between lately. This was gonna be good. "I heard some of the most ludicrous first-time stories this morning."

First time stories. Oh, shit, we were gonna talk about sex, just what I didn't need. Maybe I could slip into the bathroom and drown myself before H caught on -- "Oh, yeah? So, you gonna tell me, or do I hafta wait for the book to come out?" Even with the world coming to an end, my mouth kept working.

H slouched down on the sofa. "You hungry?"

"Yeah, sure. You wanna send out for Chinese?"

"Sounds great." H reached for the phone, but I took it out of his hand.

"No, no, let me do it; you just rest, O Prince of the Pacific."

Over sweet and sour pork, chicken chow mein, egg rolls, fortune cookies (I was to watch out for strangers, H would prosper in the near future), and several more beers, H told me the stories he'd heard and we argued about the probability of part of any of them being anywhere near the truth.

"My first time -- " Oh, shit, I didn't wanna hear this, I didn't wanna know -- he'd been so close all evening, and every casual touch tried to become a caress; it was all I could do not to stroke and pet him. And now to be treated to the story of his first time? No way.

"Hey," I interrupted, "you been telling me stories all night; it's my turn now."

"You've got a first-time story?"

Jump in with both feet, I told myself, and pray the water's deep enough. "Sure. Mine. Just lemme get us a couple more beers."

H sat up straighter, interested. "You going to tell me the truth this time, or am I getting another 'top of the Empire State Building' story?"

"This time's the real thing." I smiled and patted his cheek. "Just 'cause I like ya." I shifted around, trying to get more comfortable. "I was sixteen," I saw H's bemused look, and a chill touched me. Why'm I doing this? "An' she was sixteen. "Annie Shapiro. We'd been dating for a long time -- "

"How long?"

I stopped to think. "Two months."

H laughed. "A long time's a lot different at sixteen."

"Guess so. Jesus, at the time it seemed like we were practically married. Anyhow, we both  _ really wanted _ to -- "

"Sure about that?"

"You wanna hear this story, or you wanna practice your third degree technique?"

"Go on, tell your story."

"Well, it was the day after Thanksgiving and I'd managed to borrow a car -- "

"What kind? Sorry."

"Black VW -- and we parked in this alley -- "

"You did it in the back of a VW?!" Pure astonishment.

"Uh-huh. In November in New York. You ever had a long-distance fuck?"

H just shook his head.

"Well, that's what it was. It was too cold and we were too scared to take off our clothes, so I unzipped my pants and she hiked up her skirt --"

H was leaning against me, laughing like hell. After a moment he gasped out, "Starsk, I'm not even sure that counts -- "

"That's pretty much the way Annie felt about it. Afterward, when I asked how it had been, she said she felt like I'd been checking her oil for forty minutes."

This time I thought he was going to laugh himself off the sofa. When he could speak coherently again, he wanted to know where my second time was -- inside a phone booth?

"Nope, the next time was in her parents' living room, on the sofa -- "

"Same girl?"

I nodded. "At, I might add, her insistence. She wanted to see if it would be any better than in the Bug."

"Where were her folks?"

"Their bedroom, sleeping -- "

"Have you always had this death wish?"

"This time we took off everything and it took a lot longer'n forty minutes."

"And afterward?" His eyes were bright with expectation.

"An' afterwards she told me I could check her oil anytime, and she liked the way I tested her spark plugs."

"She actually said that?"

"Oh, yeah, the earth moved -- just real quietly."

"What if her parents had come out?"

"I dunno, I guess they'd've killed me. Christ, Blondie, I was sixteen; nothing was more important than getting laid."

"But you've matured considerably since then," H agreed sarcastically.

"Got that right, Blintz. There might not be anything more important than getting laid, but getting killed while you're doing it kinda reduces your prospects for getting any more."

H waved one hand at me. "Be quiet; I'm starting to understand you, and it frightens me."

His eyes were drooping closed; that last beer was the one too many. "I'll get you a pillow and some blankets -- try and stay awake that long, ok?"

A soft snore was his reply.

I got him off the sofa long enough to get a bed fixed up for him, and helped him off with his shoes; in a moment he was snoring more loudly.

Our deep, significant conversation, combined with that damn business with the Orange Crush set me thinking -- and thinking thoughts I didn't like having in my brain. That half dozen cheerleaders following H around had been faking it so he'd like 'em, a set-up I was familiar with; since I'd known H I'd done a lotta acting to -- I don't know, hold his interest, keep his respect. No way could I compete in the brains department -- he'd had a lot more education than me -- so I went the other way, letting him think I was pretty dim sometimes so he could show off his big blonde brain; and besides, that way, when I did know something he didn't, it took him off-guard, looked real impressive.

Of course, that game was wearing thin (by now H knows it is a game) and I don't know what's gonna replace it, but it's no big deal -- H ain't goin' anyplace, even if I showed him my Nobel Prize for Smarts, 'cause we  _ are _ friends.

But there's other things I don't ever want him to know -- he's such a goddamned romantic --  _ wounded _ romantic; it feels like somehow, something back in Minnesota just burned his heart right out, I dunno, told him the Tooth Fairy wasn't for real, or that the Lone Ranger was secretly working for the bad guys, and it hurt him someplace deep. Now, it's like he wants to prove 'em wrong by being all the good guys rolled into one and save the whole frigging world -- or at least everything west of the San Andreas Fault. And it can't be done. And every time he gets kicked in the guts trying (like this Colby thing), it's like losing the Tooth Fairy all over again. Good is good and bad is bad and there's enough stuff about me that doesn't fall on the good side of the fence -- I'm not some sweet innocent (which I guess this wild hunger for him proves) and I don't wanna get locked out. So I play it as wide-eyed and "Gee whiz" as I can get away with, and hope like hell I can hang onto him.

Anyhow, those cheery thoughts gobbled up another night's sleep -- just as well; with that kinda crap floating around in my head, I'da had killer nightmares for sure.

####  Day Five

We hit Cap'n's office bright and early and gave him our findings -- Pammy Mills used language her mother wouldn't approve of. H told Cap'n that he could have the privilege of telling Ms Linton, because we were taking the day off. Then he grabbed me by the arm and pulled me out of Cap'n's office. We could hear him yelling as we dashed down the hall.

After a great breakfast at IHOP, I dropped H at his place, went home and hit the sheets. I don't know if this is gonna go away, or what, but if I gotta act the rest of my life, I guess I gotta.

******

_ Hutch heard the shower shut off and hastily stuck the file folder back in Starsky's desk. He'd been reading Starsky's "Clandestine Reports" for as long as Starsky had been writing them; he'd stumbled across this one accidentally when he'd gone looking for Starsky's report on John Colby. There hadn't been one; not only wouldn't he talk about it, he didn't want to write about it either. _

_ Hutch hadn't expected the report he  _ **_had_ ** _ found, and he wasn't sure how he felt about it, but he figured he'd hang on to the bikinis and whistle, just in case Starsky decided to tell him. _

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first of the Clandestine Reports. That is, the first one I wrote. It was for the summer buns issue of The Fix (#6), and knowing Martha was a Hutch girl, I decided to focus on his buns. And who better to channel that through than Starsky?


End file.
